“We live by night and dance fast so the grass can’t grow under our feet. That’s our creed.”

The problem with superlative work by any type of artist is that anything that comes after it is measured against it and usually found wanting. I’m still waiting for the Coens to make another Fargo, but at least Orson Welles is finally free from the millstone of Citizen Kane.

Some authors, having been washed over by the warm waves of  deserved adulation, suddenly acquire a terrible fear of water. (The Harper Lee phenomenon?) Others bravely and admirably dive in again, but I imagine a certain amount of resentment eventually bobs to the surface. I wonder if Shirley Jackson ever snapped, “Dammit, The Lottery isn’t the only thing I ever wrote, you know!”

Would the rifle have beckoned so fatally to Hemingway if A Farewell to Arms just been published? Would the tinfoil promise of Hollywood have seemed so alluring to Faulkner if Light In August was only in a rough draft status? Would Scott Fitzgerald have saved on his liquor bill if he had saved The Great Gatsby for later rather than sooner? Who knows.

Dennis Lehane was up against a formidable obstacle when I picked up my copy of Live By Night, a new novel that continues the bullet-riddled saga of the Coughlin clan of Boston that the author began in The Given Day. It was, however, strictly of Mr. Lehane’s own doing because the obstacle was my lasting admiration for the first book, one that I automatically recommend, along with The Killer Angels and The Sisters Brothers, to someone who wants “a really good read.”

Live By Night was off to a hopeful start. The title reminded me of Nicholas Ray’s smart little noir thriller with Farley Granger and Cathy O’Donnell. The sequel was set in Boston. Boston is my favorite city even though I haven’t been to too many cities what with my thing about how many bolts hold the wings onto planes. (I’m still sure that I like it better than I’d like Paris or Detroit.) But the new novel didn’t stay in Boston very long and I detected storm clouds on my horizon of expectations. They amassed and darkened.

The Given Day had an expansive sweep to it. Live By Night is an episodic and stylistically uneven crime and redemption tale revolving around the angst that is inevitable when a gangster is cursed with a conscience.  Lehane seamlessly incorporated many incidents in Boston’s tumultuous history into the first book and only drops a few familiar names (Sacco and Vanzetti come to mind) into the sequel, like a social climber anxious to impress at a swank party. The ploy only reminded me of how good The Given Day really was.

Personally, I find fictional characters with functioning consciences to be tedious bores. Mr. Lehane, to his great credit, does not cast Joe Coughlin into a pit of misbegotten nobility, even if he isn’t the easiest guy to get a fix upon. Joe is the youngest son of Thomas Coughlin, the Boston police captain, whose checked career formed the centerpiece of the story of The Given Day. Tom brought a whole new dimension to the concept of tough love fatherhood — blacker and bluer, all in the name of love.  The old man only stoked the flames of rebellion. Young Joe jettisoned an education to become a henchman for Albert King, a ruthless kingpin of crime in Boston.

Joe makes a huge career mistake by falling hard for Albert’s girl, the enticingly inscrutable Emma Gould. He clings desperately to the hope that Emma hasn’t been killed after the car she is riding in plunges into the sea and her body is not recovered from the wreck. As they tend to do, the years pass and Joe finally resigns himself to the worst, although the reader might be tempted to conclude that the poor guy has just never read a mystery.

After serving hard time in prison for a bank robbery gone suspiciously sour, Joe relocates to Tampa, Florida to repair some potholes in the mob’s booze highway up the east coast. He expands into other nefarious enterprises, but still manages to cling to a touching naivety about the destructive impact his chosen line of work has on the people he cares about. The premise that evil only begets more evil might be fairly obvious to most people, but Joe’s quandary provides the book’s central, if slightly unoriginal, theme.

The elegantly smooth prose of The Given Day here is supplanted by an obvious effort to pay homage to the Raymond Chandler/James M. Cain school of rapier-sharp dialog. Too often, however, the banter in Live By Night smacks more of Warner Brothers than of Chandler. The tough talk conceit is one that should be used sparingly in anything except books about a knockout blond with ice in her veins and murder on her mind. Lehane tends to ladle it on as if his characters were auditioning for Howard Hawks.

Some of the descriptive passages seem a touch overbaked, too.  “His teeth were grey and slanted, several tipping back into his mouth like old headstones in a flooded graveyard.” I thought that Mr. Lehane had a written a wonderfully evocative simile until he felt compelled to add the part about the flooded graveyard and capsized the whole thing. The book is filled with similarly verbose excesses.

I doubt if my guarded opinion is going to drive Dennis Lehane to paroxysms of despair and I sincerely hope that Live By Night is another big success for him; that it finds a secure perch on the Times’ Best Seller list; that Eastwood or Scorcese opt it for the movies. It deserves its success because of all that it is: Fiercely entertaining, often exciting, and verdantly atmospheric.

But, alas, The Given Day it just isn’t.

Live By Night will be published by HarperCollins in October.

The recent blog of May 7^th (allowing our readers to post and enter into a contest for winning a Julia Alvarez book) made me think about my favorite Alvarez book. I have sung the praises of her Tia Lola series in some of my own blogs, but it was Before We Were Free I have always considered my favorite.

Before We Were Free is a beautiful and sad story of courage and strength.  During 1960 the Dominican Republic is under political and social unrest. Revolution is every place, but Anita tries to be normal. But how can you be normal when your family has many secrets? And because of them must leave her beloved home and country? Old friends become enemies; neighbors no longer trusted and at any moment she and her family could be arrested. Or worse.

Julia Alvarez tells this story with amazing detail, brilliant images and wonderful feeling. She has written a story for ages 12 and up, but all can access this must read. Alvarez allows her readers to become part of a piece of history.  While Alvarez now lives in Vermont, you know by reading her novels or even if you have the pleasure of hearing her speak, she loves her home. Her novels are her way of allowing us to be part of her cherished home and past.

You can find this and other books by Alvarez on the shelves of the Northshire Bookstore. You might not be able to travel to the Dominican Republic yourself, but because of Alvarez (or other authors) you do not have to leave home to become part of another world.

If the image of the FBI that you want to nurture is the one garnered from watching Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. every week on television, you probably should avoid Enemies, a comprehensively scary history of the Bureau, from its origins during Theodore Roosevelt’s administration to the present. The book is by Tim Weiner, who won a National Book Award for his similar examination of the labyrinthine byways of the CIA, Legacy of Ashes, in 2007.

Mr. Weiner begins this impressive history by dispelling a common myth — that the FBI primarily exists as a sort of super police force, possessing power and resources that far exceed those of local and state law enforcement agencies. The power and resources aspect may be true, but the Bureau was originally formed as an intelligence service, with its cloaks more impenetrable and the daggers a little bit sharper.

The Federal Bureau of Investigation  has never been tethered to a conventional blueprint. The rules have been formulated as the organization evolved. For most of the years of its existence, its focus was shaped by the messianic personality of the man whose name has become synonymous with crime-busting in America. And a history of the FBI that isn’t inextricably entwined with the life of J. Edgar Hoover would be like staging a Passion play without Christ.

If there could be said to be a “hero” in Enemies, the dubious honor would have to be bestowed upon the  inflexible shoulders of Mr. Hoover, a larger-than-life figure that Weiner never patronizes, condescends to, or judges. And, with Hoover, that is no small accomplishment.

Hoover never tired of trumpeting the admirable aspects of the Bureau. No one defended the principles of American life so vehemently, especially the kind that made for riveting congressional testimony that, in turn, spawned blazing newspaper headlines. If there was a self-promotional aspect to Hoover’s brand of patriotism, its sincerity was genuine and his motives weren’t entirely self-glorification. No one recognized the fact that J. Edgar Hoover was the living personification of the FBI more than Hoover himself. If he didn’t discourage the perception, he didn’t take the responsibility lightly.

He also embodied all of the negative qualities that inevitably rear their heads with the investiture of too much power in a single individual. Hoover answered to no one, hoodlum or president. He trusted no one and, in this particular profession, the caution served him well. The wall he built to surround his FBI was impervious to the winds of politics. Even someone as skilled at huffing and puffing as Robert Kennedy came up short of breath when he tried to blow Hoover’s house down. Lyndon Johnson gave him the director’s job for as long as he wanted it, although it was a little like giving Walt Disney a free pass to the Magic Kingdom.

Hoover’s passing in 1972 marked the beginning of an uncertain and even life-threatening period for the Bureau. No subsequent director exerted such a firm grasp on the organization or commanded such respect from its personnel. Hoover wielded the files he meticulously maintained on people — friend and foe — like a crusader’s sword, one that was no less lethal for having been honed on the whetstone of scandal and dirt. His successors were reluctant to use such disreputable tactics. Suddenly, the FBI, our nation’s much heralded first line of defense against evil, foreign and domestic, was more vulnerable than it had been since its fledgling, pre-Hoover period.

In less skilled hands, the sudden absence of so fascinating a star player might create an unbridgeable chasm, but Mr. Weiner never allows his brisk narrative to teeter. Hoover may have departed, but Iran-Contra, Waco, Oklahoma City, and 9/11 loomed like shark fins in his wake. (One of the most tragic aspects of each was the extent of the intelligence that federal agencies had before the catastrophic events.)

The men who followed Hoover were, perhaps, not as colorful, but they were not without their quirks either. Louis Freeh, the FBI’s 5th Director, made it a point never to speak to Bill Clinton unless he absolutely had to. Clinton, in a situation that was reminiscent of Richard Nixon’s Saturday Night Massacre debacle, couldn’t fire his insolent and self righteous subordinate because Freeh was investigating the president’s questionable business dealings and the more distasteful aspects of Clinton’s itchy libido.

This is an remarkably accessible account of the history of an institution whose foundation was built on secrecy and even deception. It is a cautionary tale that ultimately offers little reassurance that lessons learned in the past will be retained as we struggle to survive in an ever more dangerous world. The overriding question that  haunts Enemies like a malevolent ghost has to do with the price we are willing to pay as far as restrictions on our personal freedoms and privacies for security and peace of mind or, at the very least, the comforting illusion of them.

Tim Weiner will be at the Northshire on May 25th to talk about Enemies.

On Friday, May 11th at 7 pm: The Northshire welcomes Joseph Olshan, award winning author of 10 novels, including Nightswimmer and The  Conversion, as he presents his stunning debut thriller Cloudland.

Some years ago six women were murdered in the Connecticut River Valley of Vermont and New Hampshire in quick succession, some of the crimes committed within only a few months of one another.  The killings were quickly determined to be the work of a single perp: first the women were strangled and then they were stabbed to death.

Because the communities in this rural area are relatively small, many not only knew the victims but considered them almost extended family.  The murders were the major topic of conversation in town meetings, in supermarkets and diners.

It was during this unsettling and uncertain period that I began living in the Connecticut River valley and first rented a large sparsely furnished house perched on the edge of a pasture.   I moved there in one of the coldest, snowiest Decembers on record.  I was trying to write a new novel while commuting to New York City once a week to teach creative writing at New York University.

Shortly thereafter a strange routine started.  At night I would be reading or scribbling at a large table in the dining room, which faced a road only several hundred yards uphill from a covered bridge.   I noticed that cars, after crossing the bridge, would continue along the road then pull directly into my driveway.   The headlights, like two burning eyes, would blister into the house, causing a sharp and strange illumination.  The cars would remain stationery in the driveway; nobody got out. Unnerved, I’d watch them for however long they paused in their journey.  Eventually, the cars would reverse and proceed back down the hill, back toward the covered bridge.  I concluded they were probably searching for a famous Bed and Breakfast located not far from my house. And even though I wasn’t likely to be the next victim of the serial murderer still at large, I was nevertheless agitated by the strange procession of cars whose lights intruded upon my ritual of living and writing in complete solitude.

Six weeks into my stay in mid-January there was a terrible blizzard.  Very early the next day a snowplow driver found a single stranded car packed with snow in a parking lot of a northbound rest area along Route 91.  The car doors had been left wide open, and this irregularity was enough to make the driver climb out and investigate.  In the front seat he found a pair of ski pants and a pocketbook.  The snow that had blown into the car was stained a deep dark red,  the stain of blood.

A nurse who from a local hospital had gone skiing the previous day and never made it home.  Once the blood was matched to the missing woman, it was assumed that she was yet another victim of the serial killer.  The discovery made front page headlines in the area, but searches for her body and investigations into her disappearance led nowhere.

Two months later a woman (who, in years to come, would become a very close friend of mine) went for a walk during an unseasonal thaw.  As she was passing an apple orchard she saw somebody in a pink parka leaning against a tree.  The temperature had climbed to 60 degrees, positively balmy for the end of March, and she assumed that the person had decided to take in some sun.  Until strolling home a half hour later, she noticed that the woman was in exactly the same position, her head tilted back at a slightly odd angle.  It was then that she thought to wade through the deep snow and discovered the missing nurse who’d been dumped into a deep trough of snow and had lain there frozen for two months.

Finding a murdered body took its traumatic toll, and it was a long time before my friend could put the event behind her.   One of the ways she dealt with it was by telling and retelling the story of her walk, of how she saw the pink parka and eventually realized whom exactly she’d found lying against the tree.  After she told me the story a number of times, it began to take on a life of its own, created its own after-image in my imagination much in the same way as did the burning headlamps of the lost cars.  Two powerful images fused together into a narrative about a woman living alone who writes a household hints column.  One day this woman finds a dead body and is slowly drawn into the investigation for a serial killer who might be a local resident, who just might be somebody she already knows.

Two things I like on a rainy day: a cup of hot chocolate and a good movie (though a good book comes in a very close second).  And one rainy day I came across a movie called Tin Man staring Zooey DeSchanel, Neal McDonough, Alan Cumming and a personal favorite, Callum Keith Rennie. Now, while I am a fan of the original.   Judy Garland and Toto were favorite friends (and many years later, Flying Monkeys were a symbol of a personality quirk of mine) but Tin Man is a great new twist on a classic.

This two disc set staring Deschanel, McDonough, Cumming, Richard Dreyfuss, and Raoul Trujillo (as DG; Tin Man; Glitch, the Wizard and Raw) is the retelling of the Wizard of Oz with more contemporary ideas, language and concept. After the storm takes DG back to Oz (come to find out she’s been there before!) she and her motley crew of loveable (but filled with secrets) band of familiar characters (with their own unique take) must travel to find the sorceress named Azkadellia: A witch with a few secrets of her own. The story plot is intense, beautiful, sad, mesmerizing and hopeful. While made for television, it would equally be at home on the big screen. Every time it ends, you will be hitting the play button again. You can’t get enough of DG and friends! The Yellow Brick road will never be the same! The extras are just the right amount and are perfect additions to the story.

This isn’t the Frank L. Baum story as we’ve all known and loved over the years.  While still keeping with the fantastical and magic of Oz that we’ve all grown to love, it is a more realistic telling.  The characters are more deeply explored and examined.  The story captivates as equally as the scenery is beautiful.  You have found yourself over the rainbow and in a world as dangerous as it is beautiful; treacherous as it is home.  You will surely tell yourself, “We’re not in Kansas anymore!!”

We have our three winners: Jasmine Marrero-Pratt, Beatrix Kiddo, and Gail King! Please contact Mary at events@northshire.com for details. And thanks to everyone that entered!

We have three copies of A Wedding in Haiti to give away! Leave a comment here or on our Facebook page telling us which of her 19 books is your favorite and you are entered to win! We will notify the three lucky winners on Monday, May 14th.

Julia Alvarez has been called “a one-woman cultural collision” by the Los Angeles Times Book Review, and that has never been truer than in this story about three of her most personal relationships—with her parents, with her husband, and with a young Haitian boy known as Piti. A teenager when Julia and her husband, Bill, first met him in 2001, Piti crossed the border into the Dominican Republic to find work. Julia, impressed by his courage, charmed by his smile, has over the years come to think of him as a son, even promising to be at his wedding someday. When Piti calls in 2009, Julia’s promise is tested.

To Alvarez, much admired for her ability to lead readers deep inside her native Dominican culture, “Haiti is like a sister I’ve never gotten to know.” And so we follow her across the border into what was once the richest of all the French colonies and now teeters on the edge of the abyss—first for the celebration of a wedding and a year later to find Piti’s loved ones in the devastation of the earthquake. As in all of Alvarez’s books, a strong message is packed inside an intimate, beguiling story, this time about the nature of poverty and of wealth, of human love and of human frailty, of history and of the way we live now.